Anne Bronte

Farewell to thee
but not
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;

How brightly glistening in the sun      The woodland ivy plays
While yonder beeches from their barks      Reflect his silver rays
That sun surveys a lovely scene      From softly smiling skies;
And wildly through unnumbered trees      The wind of winter sighs:

I have gone backward in the work,       The labour has not sped,
Drowsy and dark my spirit lies,       Heavy and dull as lead
How can I rouse my sinking soul       From such a lethargy
How can I break these iron chains,       And set my spirit free

While on my lonely couch I lie,
I seldom feel myself alone,
For fancy fills my dreaming eye With scenes and pleasures of its own
Then I may cherish at my breast An infant's form beloved and fair,

I hoped, that with the brave and strong,
My portioned task might lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high

I love the silent hour of night,
For blissful dreams may then arise,
Revealing to my charmed sight What may not bless my waking eyes
And then a voice may meet my ear,

Gloomily the clouds are sailingO'er the dimly moonlit sky;
Dolefully the wind is wailing;
Not another sound is nigh;
Only I can hear it